


Fate's Kiss

by Malind



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Father/Son Incest, Grief/Mourning, Love, M/M, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malind/pseuds/Malind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king's love for his wife knew no boundaries, even when, after her death, that love blackened his heart and, in turn, his kingdom.  But, in darkness, a light shines strongest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Protest

**Author's Note:**

> This story is kinda LovelyNightmare's fault for writing such a wonderful start to a story ([The King and the Prostitute](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7604401)). Check it out, if you haven't yet. :D
> 
> Disclaimer: The Tolkien characters and universe are owned by Tolkien Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

Her steady breaths follow the rhythm of our firm presses and pulls on the straps and buckles that hug the silver armor to her strong body. All the while, I drown in a fear that shreds my resolve to merely aid her. My wife, she will not look at me, no matter how I stare.

Could I finally earn her concern if I stopped?  Would she protest if I forced an end to her well-practiced routine? Would she grow angry with me if I dismantled the bindings I suddenly loathe and forced the weight of her armor back off of her so that she is in nothing but soft cloth and softer skin?

I _should_ stop my own hands.  I should stop her.  I should refuse her this, even if she protests, even if she grows angry, even if she inevitably despises me for my dire control.

But I cannot stop either one of us because this is her wish and she holds every drop of my reverence.

But, in the same heartbeat, I cannot forget that she wishes this despite me and my dread, despite our child sleeping in the adjoining room. Despite everything, she remains committed to performing her duty to our kingdom.

To me, this is abandonment, but she does not believe it truly is and says she will be back. But this _is_ abandonment because, beyond her beautiful face, all I can see is her death. She knows of my terror, of what I have foreseen in the grasp of fate. But that fails to stop her even now.

It is not that she denies my vision outright. In fact, this very morning, she said to me, "Can any one of us deny our fate?"

Back to her, I had immediately said, "Yes."

She had merely smiled and kissed me softly. She hadn't believed my 'yes' then any more than she does now.

As I fasten the last strap at her side, she touches my cheek, drawing my gaze. Tears come to my eyes, and she shakes her head slightly, loose blonde hair rolling over her armored shoulders, saying 'no' to my tears.

A whisper, she also says, "Care for our son, my love. I _will_ be back in a fortnight."

No, she will not. I can feel it. I can see it as clearly as I see her now.  But how can I say such things out loud again when it will not matter to her, when all of my hope is now geared towards proving myself wrong?

She will live. She must. She is the one who holds my heart in her hands. She is the mother of our child who'd only just learned to walk.

She binds up her hair at the base of her neck, tying it off with a cord of leather, before she takes a step back to the table, straps on her sword, and slips on her silver helmet and gauntlets. She glows like the moon and her eyes gleam with starlight as she turns around to face me. Her smile burns me, even if it's only meant to warm me.

How can I make her stay here with us? In my arms?

How can she deny me when I cannot deny her?

"Time will pass in an instant, a blink of our eyes, and my every thought will belong to the both of you. And then I shall be home to cover you and Legolas with kisses," she whispers with her wistful, barely-there smile.  She shakes her head slightly while searching my stricken face. "Fear not for me, Thranduil. Fear will only eat you alive."

I want to tell her she is wrong about fear, because she is. Fear can also save lives.

But I cannot say it. My lips refuse to say anything at all. Not even goodbye because it's the last thing I would ever want to say to her.


	2. Mourn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was editing, I remembered [this picture](http://cosom.deviantart.com/art/Legolas-426675589). It's pretty much exactly how I envision Leoglas in this. And, no, I definitely didn't draw it. XD

<<>><<>><<>> Fifty-two years later <<>><<>><<>>

 

With each new step, the Elvenking's dark long-coat billowed more than the last. His livid stride flapped his cascade of hair and swung the sword at his side. His every angry movement, every thudding heartbeat, every twist of his face would have already silenced the faraway din had the flippant elves witnessed their king. After all, the said din was foreign, forbidden to the mourning halls since the death of the queen. Those sounds were the sole things that had drawn the inflamed king to the unsanctified gathering by the word of a meek guard who knew his place.

Within himself, Thranduil carried the full intention of returning blessed silence by demanding the Silvan elves show reverence for death and morn their fallen Queen. He intended to accomplish all of that by ending the festivities, especially since he was now certain of the cause of the gathering, judging by the season.

Unaware of its impending doom, the cheerful ruckus continued to pour out into the spiderweb of tunnels and adjoining halls. The expansive chamber at the end of the tunnel was one Thranduil knew to be amongst the smaller in the carved underground fortress, although it was still no less extravagant in its décor. This particular room, situated far from the main hall and deep under the ground, had been most likely chosen because of its very location. Inside, a gathering could keep their secrets their own.

Well, the chamber could have assured secretiveness for this particular group if the elves had thought to keep their voices a bit more in check.

When the king finally stood within the chamber but behind the crowd, the perfume of freshly picked flowers assaulted his nose, the multitudes of joyous voices rubbed his ears raw, and their smiling faces and alive bodies clawed at his deadened heart. Faced with it all, the whole of him lifeless and dull compared to them, the overwhelmed king suddenly wanted to retreat as abruptly as he'd entered, and that angered him even further.

Then the king saw the focus of their attention. His soft-soled booted feet glued themselves to the spot. And he'd thought his heart had been thudding before...

Near the middle of the room, he saw his wife, youthful, smiling, laughing, relishing life the way she always did. Arms reaching out for a touch, she played the same game they'd played so long ago when he'd fallen in love with her just that much more. Back then, as king, he hadn't yet spoken a word of that love to anyone and certainly not to her, to shield her youthfulness. And back then, someone else had savored her soft, playful kiss.

Now, as the king's deadened heart incomprehensibly swelled, this moment of fixation was no different than that day centuries before.

In the next moment, he saw the truth in a sharper jaw, thinner lips, slimmer hips, and mourned her death all over again. And mourned their apparently equally flippant son because he'd never truly known her and the love she'd given them both.

In her place, their son--one of the most somber of the newest to come of age, or, at least before this moment, Thranduil had thought him to be somber--apparently had no objection to being blindfolded and made to chase, all with no thought for his mother's death.

Legolas laughed with elves of his young generation, cried out to them for mercy, for assistance, nearly louder than the rest. A wreath of Spring, of new beginnings, rested on his head. His eyes hid behind a thick white cloth, the color of which dimmed in comparison to his golden hair that captured every spark of torchlight. He was otherwise clothed as the others around him were, in a simple pale-green tunic and pants, symbolically revealing their relatively new life to the eternal. His light-footed bare feet made no sound on the smooth stone floor.

The heir swung his arms out to anyone, anything, and ended up touching nothing but air as elves danced away on their own silent bare feet and taunted their prince with their sing-song voices. Judging by the fact that everyone did their best to lead the chase on, Legolas' turn had only just begun and had been the first.

The game was an old, traditional one. Its beginnings had started well before Thranduil's birth. It had different forms amongst the races of Middle Earth and throughout the ages. But in the end, with overall simplicity, they all revolved around a touch, a kiss. It was a mating game, even if it held no real risk of commitment, at least not for this generation. And his son, his prince, his royal heir, was searching for that kiss from the nearly two dozen young elves around him, from his council members' children, right down to the servants' own.

The eye-clawing sight of the Silvan elves, the antagonizing sounds of their voices, the disgusting floral scents of the flowers decorating their bodies... It was all as if they were shoving their defiance in his face.

Thranduil couldn't stop the pulse of rage against the people under his rule, no matter how young they were, no matter how much hope they had. These elves _knew_ a gathering such as this was forbidden during the period of mourning. Yet here they were.

And here Legolas was... So willingly... So willing to be touched.

_And who would dare touch my child?_

The sudden pulse of possessiveness startled him, but he nonetheless couldn't help himself as he glared around the chamber at elves unworthy to breathe his son's breath, let alone touch him, who had yet to notice their king's presence. Every muscle tensed in him when a few of them began to slow down their retreat in anticipation of Legolas' blind favor.

And Legolas only encouraged them on.

...And kissing _his_ son? There wasn't a soul in that room worthy of his son's kiss, the king himself included. With everything Thranduil had done over the course of Legolas' short life, the king knew he didn't deserve an ounce of affection from his child. But that didn't mean the young elves shouldn't bow out before their King and...

And what? Allow him to be the one to receive his son's kiss?

With a flabbergasted shake of his head, Thranduil tried to right his mind, to see reason, to see this situation for what it truly was, to understand that his only child was no longer a child. But for some reason, his mind wouldn't release the possessive hate for anyone close to his son.

But surely anyone could recognize that this beautiful creature before them was his and his alone, someone who had to be protected from experiencing the same agony Thranduil himself had experienced over fifty years before. Surely everyone could grasp that Legolas was the only remnant Thranduil had left of his wife and their love for one another.

...A remnant he'd forced into the care of others, no matter the child's cries for him. An elf who was now old enough to marry, even if he apparently hid his escapades. Who barely even looked at his father, and when Legolas did, offered only a stranger's glance.

Before today, Thranduil had preferred it that way, to keep himself whole and sane, to do what he had to do to survive and what he had to do for his kingdom to survive him. To feel this grinding protectiveness over his son, now.... To want him close and keep everyone else at a respectable distance... The absurdity of his sudden reversal was in no way lost on him. But...

He'd also never before been faced with... this.

When Thranduil refocused on the outside world, on elves he wanted to throw in the dungeon since he couldn’t outright kill them, he realized the increasing number of eyes on him as his blindfolded son made his way towards him. Almost as if... called by fate.

But the king didn't believe in fate. Not anymore.

He believed in choices, decisions, consequences.

His wife hadn't died because of fate. In fact, when she'd died, she'd proven there was no such thing as fate. She'd died because of him. Because he'd failed her in every way he could. Because he didn't stop her when he could have. His choice back then to do nothing was something he now had to live with every single horrid day of his eternal life. And he deserved the punishment of life.

Slowly but surely, the merriment died off. Then, with only a few steps left between father and son, the room became unbearably quiet. Legolas' smile finally completely dropped from his lips. His hands fell to his sides as he came to a stop. This beautiful, quiet, cold creature Thranduil now saw before him was his true son. That joyful elf from a minute before was a stranger.

And with the sudden stiffness of Legolas' body, something so familiar to the king, Thranduil realized the youth must now know who was before him.

...Or not. No, there was no way the prince could have known who was in front of him because Legolas then continued to move forward with hesitant steps, a single hand reaching out. Surely if Legolas had known who was in front of him, he would have stopped. Thranduil _knew_ his son would have stopped. They hadn't been closer together than a few steps for so many years, not since Legolas was a small child. It was a distance Legolas had eventually accepted gracefully, if not welcomed.

Watching his son, Thranduil noticed again how the blindfold that hid his son's eyes couldn't hide his beauty.  Under Legolas' slim, almost boyish nose, his soft lips breathed out the heavy breaths of his prior joviality. His cheeks were flushed with a lovely pink that nearly mirrored those parted lips. Even now, especially now, the youth reminded the king far too much of his late queen, the bearer of his only child standing before him who'd only recently come of age. Who had become so gifted in thought and body and, in turn, admired for it. But who was still young. So young. Too young and in need of protection from the consuming sin and death of the world. His son...

His son was beautiful, glowing, so full of life, even with the sudden hesitancy, even through the king's relentless denial. It was life Thranduil now realized he'd never truly drained from the boy despite the strangulation of his best efforts. Obviously, Legolas had only ever hidden it from him and his judgement.

The moment slim but training-strengthened fingers touched Thranduil's chest, the older elf couldn't help but suck in his breath. The sounds of that one breath and Legolas' heavy ones were the only sounds to be heard, well, at least outside of Thranduil's reckless heart that thudded with the inbred certainty that he should be taking control of the situation, commanding obedience, though, at that moment, mainly from his own heart.

But he did nothing to stop Legolas. Somehow control and reason had abandoned him, both of them laughing in the face of four millenniums of experience.

The hand drifted upwards, caressing smoothly over hard muscle and soft cloth. Surely Legolas would stop. Surely he would know whom he touched. But Legolas didn't stop.

When the hand finally touched the skin of his neck, seeming to burn him there, the connection managed to burst forth from Thranduil's lips what should have been there moments, minutes before:

"Stop," the king hissed, just loud enough for his son to hear.

At the single word, the hand stopped. Stopped against his neck, cradling it almost with its heated, lightly calloused skin. The hand didn't move away. And Thranduil couldn't draw away like he should have, not with so much confusion, want, and desperation to control everything making him dizzy. The whole of this moment was far too much like his last moments with his wife.

Legolas' breaths grew even heavier, but he still didn't withdraw, confusing the king all the more. Thranduil found his quickly matching. The hand touching him heated more, dampened. All the while, Thranduil's body grew instinctively aware of what was blooming inside of Legolas' body, even while his mind refused acknowledgement. In turn, heat swarmed inside of him to his dismay.

His son... His son wasn't withdrawing, even at the sound of Thranduil's single word. Legolas should have withdrawn. Any sense in the world said Legolas would have. But he didn't and Thranduil found himself desperate to understand why. In the same moment, he knew he had to end this, whatever this was. If Legolas was feeling...

No, he couldn't be. That was madness!

....But if it was even remotely true, he had to stop his son before...

The boy's breaths trembling, the hand began to creep upwards again. Thranduil swallowed against the hand at his throat as the burning of their bodies seemed to consume him. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd thought himself mad.

_...Am I so maddened that..._

With the broken thought, some bit of rationality revolted against every burning bit inside of himself that basked in his son's now all-too-obvious desire. The rationality saved him by making him ill with disgust for himself and the damage he'd apparently done to his own son over the years that had forced Legolas to even conceive of.... He feared to name it.

Instead, gripping the hand at his neck and pulling it down, Thranduil whispered with clear warning, "Legolas."

The youth clenched his hand inside the grip and then ripped it away, before untying the blindfold from his head, leaving blonde locks in disarray. Striking blue, wide eyes looked up. The youth's blush only deepened while he stared up at his father.

Legolas' mouth opened, but then shut when he jerked a gaze around them, taking in the young elves staring at them. His face turned bright red as Legolas took one last look at his father and then stalked from the hall, leaving them and him alone with his dire need to destroy whatever had just happened between them.

A whisper grabbed Thranduil's attention. He glared in the general direction of it and then at all of the faces in the room, silently demanding their absolutely silence with a not-so-hidden threat of guaranteed agony. The youths' eyes dropped in succession.

"Your games are over. Return to your homes," their King ground out and then stalked directly to Legolas' bedchamber, the first place he thought the young elf would retreat to. Never mind it was surely the last place he should have gone.


	3. Relinquish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the reads, kudos, bookmarks, comments, and subscriptions up to this point and beyond! I'm glad this was all right!

With one harsh knock, the king announced himself. When there was no response on the other side of the door though, Thranduil didn't hesitate in letting himself into the room, assured in the idea that he couldn't allow this, whatever it was, to fester between them, for both of their sakes.

They didn't need anything else between them. As it was, their relationship was next to nonexistent and he knew that, had regretted it in his darkest moments, but never enough rise over his overbearing love for his dead wife.

And now suddenly he was trying to be a father again? Starting at the very moment he least was one, while boiling with absurd lust for his only child?

In the middle of the room, stopped from apparent pacing, when Legolas looked at him with the same wide eyes as before, Thranduil couldn't help but hope he was making too much of the situation.  He should let Legolas be. Nothing had truly happened, after all. Well, except for his body irrationally heating as it did again at that moment under Legolas' stare.

Legolas' hands fidgeted, thankfully drawing the older elf's attention into distraction. Thranduil saw the youth's hands nearly yanking on the blindfold in front of his thighs.

"I..." said Legolas so quietly that Thranduil almost didn't hear him with their distance. When Thranduil met his gaze, Legolas' gaze dropped to the floor. It took a few moments before it rose again. "Father, I... I did not know it was you... I..." Cheeks reddening once again, the young elf looked away, seeming to strive to find something, anything to look at besides his father.

Legolas hadn't known it was him? Thranduil wanted to believe that so badly. But surely if it was true, his son would have been able to meet his gaze.

When the youth didn't continue speaking, Thranduil could only stand the silence for a short while before he said as softly as he could, "I, what?"

Watery blue eyes looked back at the nonetheless demanding tone. Legolas' jaw worked for a moment before he gritted his teeth and jerked his gaze away again. Then he started pacing again, completely ignoring his father's question, perhaps wishing he'd just go away.

At a seeming dismissal Thranduil wasn't ready for, unwilling to let this go now that it had started, he blurted out, "What? Out with it, child!"

But why couldn't he just let this go? Wouldn't it have been easier, so much more logical to do so? So, so much reasonable to just walk out the door and continue on as they had been?

The king closed his eyes, angered with his own tone, his doubt, his inability to deal with his own child. There were many reasons he'd kept the distance between them. One of those reasons he'd discovered when Legolas had come into adolescence and had seen it fit to defy him at every turn: namely his own unbridled temper, one so much like Thranduil's own father's that it disturbed him.

There's been times he'd hated his own father, wishing he'd leave him alone, would silence his constant demands, and had on particularly dark occasions wished he'd just die, all while never realizing one day Oropher do just that, leaving Thranduil to regret every single ounce of anger and hate he'd felt for the elf.

Perhaps at times, perhaps as often as he had for his own father, Legolas had felt the same way about him.

The youth's pacing stopped, drawing Thranduil's attention. His child's stricken face drilled a hole into his heart. At their mutual stare, Legolas cleared his throat with an unnecessary harshness. "Forgive me. I-I did know. I..." The younger elf swallowed and looked to the floor. "I knew... I always know when you..." The boy's eyes lifted again, his face expectant, as if Thranduil was supposed to be able to read his mind or, at the very least, understand his half sentences. "Do you think me..."

Several quiet moments passed, leaving Thranduil to attempt to sort out what Legolas was trying to say, trying to consider every option except for the one that kept slapping him across the face. There were few options that came to mind and left him sure that he was utterly failing as a father. But, pray tell, how was he supposed to get past the blush on his son's skin, his scent in the air, the whispers of Legolas' soul, all tarnished with dire embarrassment, yes, but also with what Thranduil knew to be arousal? But it was not possible for his son to actually _want_ to be aroused at that moment, not when facing his own father.

Whatever the reason for his son's desire, when he came to accept that it was nonetheless there, Thranduil was certain his heart stopped beating. The only thing that allowed him to breathe was the prayer that he was still reading Legolas completely wrong.

Perhaps though there was a simple explanation for the youth's desire: mere misguided lust, the product of a young elf coming into adulthood.

And that was what this was: lustfulness. A father did not covet his own son. And the last thing Thranduil wanted to believe at that moment was that a son could covet his own father.

The youth strangled the blindfold in his hands. "Please... Say something." When only their heavy breaths played with the silence, Legolas took a step forward and Thranduil involuntarily took a step back. That stopped Legolas dead. The shorter elf looked near tears again. "If you think ill of me, then please tell me so. But say _something_!"

Near a whisper, Thranduil growled out, "Do not... You cannot, Legolas. You are confused. You misunderstand your feelings, your desires."

Even as he said the words, Legolas' desire seemed to grow, not lessen. How was he to ever make this situation reasonable when his child appeared to be completely without reason? That point was only proven when one of Legolas' hands released the blindfold and laid over a hardness the king could now see outlined, leaving him to wonder how he possibly could have missed it. The hand stroked, seeming to stroke the older elf himself in the process. He couldn't take his eyes way.

At the second stroke, Thranduil blurted out, "Stop this now," with as much force as he could muster, which ended up being considerably little.

Legolas didn't stop. The stroking continued as watery blue eyes watched Thranduil intently for his reaction. "How can I stop? Tell me how I can stop, and I will."

From the depth of the plea, Thranduil knew his son wasn't merely talking about stopping a hand.

How did one stop feelings? He didn't have a clue. If he'd had one, he knew everyone's lives around him would have been considerably different at that moment.

"I cannot tell you when I know not. The knowledge eludes me, Legolas," he admitted quietly.

The words did nothing to calm his child. In fact, the hand only picked up its pace as Legolas' eyelids nearly closed at the sensations. Thranduil all but growled as he worked every restraint he had within himself to not stalk up to his beautiful son and ravish him, taking away Legolas' torment, if only for a short time, while compounding his own indefinitely.

What would the boy's mother think of him at this moment, do to him? In his mind, Thranduil called himself every foul curse he knew as Legolas' breathing became erratic with trembling moans.

What was he doing standing here watching his only child preform like a whore? How could he be encouraging this with a gaze he couldn’t restrain? He merely stood there, bearing witness to this sinful pleasure. His own length swelled in mindless appreciation.

Gritting his teeth, his whole body, as nausea overtook him, Thranduil turned away from the scene, only to hear Legolas suck in a breath. The rustling of cloth stopped.  He couldn't turn back, scared of what he'd see, what he'd do, as the spite he felt for himself crushed him.

_It should have been me. Not her. In her hands, Legolas never would have become this way, overtaken by this... perversity._

_...For her, for him, I had to save Legolas. I have to be better. I have to be who he needs me to be._

Of course such things were supremely easier to think about than do.

But he could at least save Legolas from this moment.

And he did, well, tried to at least, as he stalked back out the door he hadn't even thought to close, so lost in the sight of his child.

"Father!"

It was more the footsteps coming up behind him than the word that stopped him. Then his son was against him, his arms tightly wrapped around Thranduil's chest, almost to the point of pain, trapping his arms and spooning him from behind. The feel of him, so solidly against him, did absolutely nothing to help the taller elf's resolve.

Legolas' chin lifted, and the youth whispered against the back of Thranduil's neck, "Please, forgive me! Stay with me! Just... If you leave... How I will bear it?"

Eyes closing tight, teeth gritting, the king did his best to hold himself together. He had to. He couldn't fall apart, not now. Not ever. At least, not more than he already had. "Legolas... You are my life. You know this. I will never leave you."

"Your life?"

Slowly, the grip loosened until it was just one arm around him. But instead of pulling away completely, Legolas walked around the elder elf until he was once again facing his father, his hand once again at Thranduil's chest.

With the intensity in Legolas' gaze, Thranduil couldn't find the strength to respond.

Legolas swallowed and looked at his own hand that twitched as it threatened to grab ahold of cloth. "I know... The time has come for me to choose a wife. They expect it. Surely you do as well."

In all honestly, Thranduil had never once expected it. Had never even wanted to consider it. He'd never wanted his son to suffer as he had.

And now, if he was honest with himself, after everything that had happened in these minutes... He knew he couldn't bear the thought of another touching his son, male or female, no matter how willing Legolas was, no matter how much Legolas wanted it.

_What is wrong with me? This is not how a father sees his son!_

His child's hand lifted more and caressed the brooch at the base of his throat, making Thranduil lose his train of thought. "But... There has only ever been one soul that has called to me, no matter the distance, no matter the hate and sorrow between us."

After the words were spoken, Thranduil understood them, even if he didn't want to, and finally realized the extent of his failure as a father. "Legolas, do not do this."

"You would deny me? Even after..." His son's hand drifted down and traced over the remnants of Thranduil's hardness that shouldn't have even been there in the first place. Thranduil clenched his eyes shut, growling, wishing for mercy, for it to never stop. "Why did you come here then?"

"To-" The hand began to caress, much to his dismay, much to his sinful delight. Forcing his eyes open, Thranduil gripped his son's cheeks, tilting his head up. The boy's eyes were already dark with arousal, drawing the older elf in. A hissed whisper, Thranduil said, "Help me. We cannot do this! You know our laws. You know right from wrong. This is wrong!"

Boldly, without a fear Thranduil apparently couldn't banish from himself, Legolas shook his head slightly in obvious denial. The king wanted to believe him.

When the caresses turned into strokes over a length that was quite pleased with the attention, Thranduil dove down and kisses his son's lips, deepening the kiss almost immediately, enjoying the gasp of surprise from Legolas. The youth's kiss was clumsy, though eager, and Thranduil had to wonder if his son had ever kissed someone before. His son.

_My son! What am I doing?!_

The king yanked his head away and stared down wide-eyed at his stunning offspring, holding his face tight, unbelieving of what he'd just done without thinking. The hand at his groin relented a bit, but not enough to calm down the older elf's breaths. Legolas was panting, staring up at him with confusion, yes, but that apparently wasn't enough to stop the shorter elf as he used his other hand to reach behind Thranduil's neck and tug him back into a kiss that took their breaths away and, when Legolas pulled away a minute later, left them both panting as they stared at one another.

After barely catching his breath, Legolas whispered with a passion Thranduil hadn't known his son possessed, "I want you to be mine. I want to be yours and no one else's. I know you wish to deny me these things. I understand why, believe me I do, but this has been my wish for so many years. It will not just go away because you walk away."

Thranduil began to shake his head. How long had his son wanted this? He had a feeling that it'd been far longer than he ever wanted to know. "Even if you speak the truth, you are far too young to give yourself to someone."

"You know that to be untrue. Elves have married younger than myself and with their families' blessings."

That was true, but the unadulterated truth didn't matter at that moment. Not when the discussion revolved around his own son.

How could he make Legolas understand? He feared it wasn't possible, but he would still try. "Save yourself from this, my son. You _are_ too young to understand this commitment you think you want. Otherwise you would not be making it."

A frown tainted the boy's otherwise beautiful face. He caressed his father's scarred cheek, his fingers following the dips, even with the vain magic concealing it. The touch burned the deep scars, but at the same time, felt too good. Legolas watched the motion as he whispered, "But you are my life as well. You must know this."

The king swallowed and fought against leaning into the touch. "Do not deceive yourself. You will find another. You must not sacrifice your heart to this. It would be nothing but a folly."

With a huff, his son smiled slightly, his hand renewing the caress on a length that had no hope of going down anymore. "Whatever pain I might suffer, whatever I lose in this, whatever the consequences, you are so worth it."

Both the hand and the words sapped far too much of the king's resistance. He again feared for his son's soul because Legolas was far, far too tempting in his willingness and desire. If youthfulness and shame could do nothing to end this, then Thranduil only had one card left.

"Your mother loved you so dearly, Legolas, wanted only your happiness," the king murmured. Legolas stilled, barely breathing. Thranduil could only take that as a good sign, so he continued with, "She would want you wed, with children, with a life of your own. If I did this to you, it would destroy everything she hoped for."

"But what if I want something different than that?"

His heart thumped. "Legolas... Please, have reason."

"Father... I know you push me away because of her. Not that I understood when I was younger, but I do now. This life has given me over fifty years to figure out what I want and what my fate is. Today..." Legolas smiled. "Fate smiled upon me when you entered the hall. You have given me my first kiss. I intend it to remain that way, even if you push me away now."

Thranduil shook his head. "My son, there is no such thing as fate. Only choices, decisions, and consequences."

"Then let me have those things. Let my choices be my own. Let my decisions rule my life. Let the consequences change it, whether they be good or bad. But let me. Of course... I must let you do the same. ...Are you unwilling?  Is my love for you too much to bear?"

After a lingering kiss on his son's forehead to give himself a moment to think without his son's wanting eyes on him, he offered, "I cannot say. This... Perhaps not today, but you _will_ change your mind."

"Believe me when I say nothing can change it.  I _have_ tried."

But Legolas would change his mind, Thranduil was certain. Surely he would.

Time would prove the king wrong.

Weeks later, his son having become relentless in his suddenly barely hid affection and desires that came upon Thranduil like the ceaseless cascade of a waterfall, the king learned for the first time what every part of his son tasted like, felt like, just as his son came to know him. By then, he understood the extent of his love for his wife and their son they'd created together in that love, and feared it all the more, for all of their sakes. But that in no way ended his love for Legolas that stretched and grew. Nor could that love be deterred by choices, decisions, or consequences. And certainly not by fate.

...Or, perhaps, that particular love _was_ fate. But it was also a love that had started with a kiss on his wife's belly when she conceived their beautiful, passionate, suddenly merciless child.


End file.
